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“Go on,” I tell the girls. “Leave and forget this ever happened or you won’t wake up from your sleep tonight.”
The two nod and stumble out, wailing like professional mourners at a funeral of a rich man. I only have a few minutes before they send security up. I don’t need more than one. I switch out the now empty magazine for a new one.
“Wait. Wait. We can make a deal here. I have a lot of money. Beefer’s dead. You can have his territory. Don’t want to share your girl? No problem. It was just a test anyway. Just a loyalty test. I never wanted her,” he babbles.
I shoot him between the legs. Tears pour out of his eyes. He wails, louder than the sirens on a fire truck. “Fuck. Motherfucker,” he screams. His cups the blood pouring out between his legs. “I swear to you that I’ll let you go. Call me a fucking ambulance and I’ll forget this ever happened. Jesus Christ. You shot my balls off. You sick fuck. I hate you.”
“Tell me you’re sorry,” I say, pointing the gun at his stomach. A gut wound is the worst way to die. It’s slow and painful. I like that.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he says over and over, like the pathetic worm he is.
“Apologize for the shitty things you said about my girl.”
“Yes, I’m sorry for that, too. My God. Why did you shoot me here? Why?”
“Apologize for raping Camella.”
“Who?” He shakes his head and then screams because the motion must have jarred his gonads.
“Beefer the Butcher’s daughter. You raped her four years ago.”
“Jesus. Who cares about that bitch?” he cries.
“Apologize for all the women and girls that you raped and ruined.”
“For Christ’s sake. What are you? Some white knight? You think those bitches are going to care that I’ve said two measly words? Let me give you some cash. You can buy all the virgins you want and put them in a special house and keep them from everyone. You can set up your own little nunnery where only you get to diddle the little girls. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”
I’ve dragged this out long enough, I decide. I don’t care to hear any slander against the relationship I have with Bitsy. It’s like she says, the only opinions that matter are ours.
“What I like isn’t important. I’m here for one reason. As you told me, death is the only way out,” I remind him.
“Not my death,” he protests.
“You weren’t specific,” I say, and then I put a bullet in his brain and end him.
42
Bitsy
“Come on. Come on,” I plead with my phone. “You’ve been in there twenty minutes. You said that would take ten, tops.”
I shake the device in frustration. I hate sitting on my ass doing nothing. It seems like all I’ve done for the last five years is to wait for that man. Next time—God forbid that there should be a next time—I’m going in because he shouldn’t be doing this alone. Someone needs to watch his back and that’s clearly my job. I’ll spend every day practicing with a hand gun. I’ll learn martial arts: judo, taekwondo, karate—
“Miss?”
I look up from the phone to see a patrolman knocking his baton against my car window. Oh my God. I let out a yelp and drop my device. It tumbles to the floor between my legs. The cop glares at me in suspicion and knocks harder.
I roll down the window immediately. “Yessir?” I’m a young woman sitting outside a hotel slash nightclub wearing sweats, a tank top and my hair’s in a messy bun. It’s not exactly club gear. After all my yapping to Leka to be careful and I’m the one that gets caught? I’ll never see the outdoors during my twenties. He’ll have me locked up tight somewhere until I can prove I’m not a hazard.
“You’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes in a no loading zone.”
“Um, right, well, you see…” Think, you idiot. Think. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Clearly. Let me see your license.”
Think harder! My heart thuds hard and fast against my chest.
“It’s my grandma,” I say impulsively. “Her apartment’s being treated for bed bugs, so my dad put her up here for the night, but she’s old and has a tendency to wander around.”
“It’s midnight,” the cop points out.
Sweat dampens my forehead. He obviously doesn’t believe me because no one would put their grandma in the Bennington, a hotel that has a reputation for hosting the hippest parties in town. Grandmas go to nice, quiet hotels, not ones that have a ton of paparazzi waiting on the curb outside in hopes of catching cheating celebs in the act.
Paparazzi. That’s it!
“Okay, you caught me. I’m with the GlossUp.” I flash my insurance card quickly as if it’s a form of press credential. “I’m trying to run down a story. I heard that Kiwi LaVante is seeing Jack Torin on the sly. If I get a pic or video of them together, I can pay my rent for like three months.”
